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His pockets bulged with mail, for it was his first visit to town since the destruction of the dam a week before, and there was an accumulation of letters, newspapers, and periodicals. Ever since then he had been irrigating, throwing upon his thirsty fields every drop of water he could get. As he came upon the veranda, he saw Shiller in conversation with a stranger.
"Well what?" McHale demanded. "Just as well you don't go into the bar right now," Shiller explained. "You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you you or Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends hard-lookin' nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billy bring us what we want where it's cooler." McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.
"Billy's keepin' them quiet with the pump gun," Shiller informed him. "You better get out o' town. I'll clean up your mess, darn you! Git quick. Them fellers expects some more in." McHale nodded. "I ain't organized to stand off a whole posse with one gun. So long, Bob. I'm plumb sorry I mixed you into this. They won't like you much now." "They don't need to," said Shiller. "Want any money?
Swiftly he swung out the cylinder of the weapon, ejected the empty shells, refilled the chambers, and snapped it shut. Shiller's door opened. McHale covered it instantly, but it was Shiller himself. "So you done it, did you?" he said. "Sure," said McHale. "He comes a-shootin', and I gets him. Likewise I gets them two tillikums of his if they want it that way."
I'm a judge of a seegyar meself, though the bum smokes they do be makin' nowadays has dhruv me to the pipe. No offense to you, Mr. Farrel, for no doubt ye carry a better line nor most. If ye like I'll introduce ye to Bob Shiller, that keeps the hotel " "Look here," snapped Farwell, at the end of his patience, "I'm Farwell, the engineer come down to take charge of this irrigation job.
"Well, then, do I eat?" he demanded. "Yes. Anything to keep you quiet. I'll get your dinner myself." Half an hour later Wade pushed back his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, lit a cigar, and joined the others. "I feel better," he announced. "A child could play with me in comparative safety. Now let me tell you what else I discovered. In the first place, Cross is dead. I was talking to Shiller.
As Robert Shiller has demonstrated in his tomes "Market Volatility" and "Irrational Exuberance", the volatility of stock prices exceeds the predictions yielded by any efficient market hypothesis, or by discounted streams of future dividends, or earnings. Yet, this finding is hotly disputed.
Out of the dead silence came Shiller's voice from the door: "I'll fill the first man that makes a move plumb full of buckshot. If there's any shootin' in here, I'm doin' it myself." He held a pump gun at his shoulder, the muzzle dominating the group. "You, Tom," he continued, "you said you wouldn't make trouble." "Am I makin' it?" asked McHale. "Are you makin' it?" Shiller repeated.
"There's mighty little style about me, Bob," he said. "I'm democratic a lot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap like throwin' on dog." "I asked you," said Shiller. "It's my house. The drinks are on me." "I spoke of the dust," McHale reminded him. "That makes it my drinks. And then I done asked a man to meet me in the bar. I wouldn't like to keep him waitin'."
"Oh, Casey," said Shiller, "I want you to shake hands with Mr. Glass. Mr. Glass Mr. Dunne. Mr. Glass," the genial Bob went on, "has some notion of locating here if he can get a place to suit him. He likes the land, and he likes the climate; but the recent the events er the way things shape at present has a leetle undecided him. Anything Mr. Dunne tells you, Mr. Glass, will be straight.
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